To Be Black

T/W : Descriptions of gun violence, blood, and slight gore ; Censored swears ; Heavy discussion of racism

June 1st, 1921 - 2nd Day of the Tulsa Massacre

Greenwood, Tulsa

I remember that my brother once told me that the colour of your skin all depends on one little pigment in your body- melanin. Isn’t that funny? How much of one pigment you have in your body is the very difference between life and death.

It was an innocent sunny afternoon, when my father burst through the door, dishevelled and scared. Without a word to any of us, he started dragging chairs and tables from across the house, barricading the doors and windows in the process. After hours of us begging him to explain to us his strange behaviour, in a voice so quiet and unlike the boisterous man my father was, he whispered, "They're killing us."

It took hours of coaxing my father to press out anymore details. But once we did, we sat there in shock. The whites had started a massacre of people of our colour like no other before. They had decimated half of the blacks in town. The boy next door I used to play catch with, Mr Wilson at the supermarket who always gave me a free lollipop, Mrs Roberts from across the street who made the best casserole I'd ever had, were gone. Dead. Killed. 

As I huddled inside my closet, trying to breathe as quietly as I could, I couldn’t help but ponder on why this was happening to us of all people. Me, my mother, my father and brother are just a normal family. My father is one of the best hairdressers in the area, who can leave you looking sharper than a knife, my mother is one of the most dedicated housewives you’ll find, who can make a mean cornbread, and my brother is one of the smartest kids in town.

There’s no reason to hate us. We’ve done no one any harm. We’re tax-paying citizens, we do well in school, heck we even go along with that coloured people use different bathrooms bullshit.

But, that doesn’t matter to the people who just broke down the door of the house I have lived in for 14 years. What mattered to them was that we were a different colour from them. Their hatred for anyone even a bit different from them blinded them. I shredded my nails to pieces as I hear their heavy footsteps thud.

My breath hitched as I heard them laugh. “Found two of them. Tried hiding under their bed, the fat *****.” I winced at the cruel harshness of the words before I froze at the realization of what they had just said. “Please. Just take me. Do whatever you want to me. I’m begging you, leave my wife alone. She did-” my father’s voice cut short interrupted by the sickened sound of metal on flesh.

“You think you can tell me what to do? People like you don’t deserve to live.” My father’s attacker spat the words out, and even without seeing, I could feel the venom in his words. 

As I sat there, praying for a miracle like in the movies, where the bad guy has a change of heart and gives mercy, and everyone lives happily ever after, my desperate prayers were interrupted by two piercing gunshots. The pleas of my father faded as suddenly as the shots. I froze. It couldn’t be. 

My mother’s wails filled the house like a siren, as if declaring to the world what a grave injustice had been committed. I stumbled out of the cupboard as if drawn to my mother’s cries. My father wasn’t dead. No. I wouldn’t believe it. My father, as strong, as tall as an oak tree, could not have been felled. It wasn’t possible. My mother must be crying for something else. She must be.

I staggered out of my room and into the dining room. My father’s body lay crumpled in a pool of crimson, his dark skin slick with blood that had once flowed through his tall body. My knees buckled and I fell onto the floor, as if they were unable to carry the weight of my loss and grief.

Oblivious to the cold-blooded murderers of my father in the same room as me, I wept over my father’s body. He was … gone. Killed for the colour of his skin. Killed simply because he was different. A cry of anguish escaped from my mouth.

The man who had raised me, who had taught me how to cycle, who had snuck me in an hour past my curfew, was dead. I would never see my father’s face again. I would never hug him again and I would never smell his cologne again. 

All of a sudden, I was awakened from my deep grief by the urgent pattern of footsteps as my brother ran into the living room. He let loose an animal scream, something I would never have expected from my studious, rule-following brother, and leaped at the intruders.

Before he even laid a finger on them, the assailants raised an armed hand and pulled the trigger. My brother fell back with just as much momentum as he had jumped, his body stolen from any life that had once inhabited it.

I couldn't even so much as grieve for my brother before my father and my brother’s killer turned his gun on me. The last thing I saw was the cold, metal barrel of the gun staring down at me, and then darkness.

To be black is a crime, a death sentence, and a punishment for whatever sins you may have committed in your past life. It is a life filled with pain and ill-treatment. To be black is a punishment, something I would not wish on my greatest enemy.

Present Day

When I was 6, I watched a princess with my hair, my skin, and my smile for the first time. Until she didn’t. Until the only princess who had ever resembled me turned into a frog for the majority of the movie.

When I was 13, as I sat with my best friend watching our favorite TV show, I learned my role. Not the funny, pretty, smart main character that everyone wanted to be, but the loud, sassy, wise-cracking side character, who never got the spotlight, never got the dream guy. The afterthought, the girl no one noticed, the girl that just... faded into the background. 

When I was 16, I told my coach I wanted to try out for lacrosse. He laughed, clapped me on the back, and told me that he had a ‘gut’ feeling that I would be better suited for basketball. And so I lost my chance at playing the one sport that I didn’t suck at.

When I was 21, I sat in a boardroom, my degree fresh in my hands, my ideas sharp and ready. But when I spoke, people talked over me. When I succeeded, I was told that it was by sheer luck. I learnt that no matter how hard I worked, I had to work twice as hard as every other person in the same room.

When I turned 25, I was done. Done with people treating me differently. Done with watching the world take pieces of my culture but refuse to see me for who I am. Done with the lives of people of my colour being valued less than others. 

Done watching the lives of Black people reduced to hashtags, yet another issue to be debated and dismissed. Done watching another injustice swept under the rug.

For far longer than I ever should have, I have let my anger remain a simmering fury, boiling underneath my skin. I carried it in silence, my clenched fists and gritted teeth the only sign of any emotion at all. I can no longer sit and watch. 

So I stepped out onto the streets and joined the sea of protesters, fighting for a better world for those to come.

The chants rippled through the air, raw and urgent. They weren’t just words—they were thunder, rolling through the crowd, crashing into my chest, beating in sync with my heart. Surrounded by a sea of voices, I felt years of pent-up anger break free. I let go. I shouted. I screamed. Every frustration, every injustice, every furious thought I had never expressed, I yelled. It was time the world heard my voice.

All these people from all walks of life, from all races, of every colour, were all here for the same reason as I was. I belonged. We weren’t just protesting against hatred, but pleading for kindness. A better world for our children, one where instead of loathing, there was love. Instead of enmity, there was warmth. Instead of resentment, there was kindness. 

Each voice, each raised fist, and each sign held high above our heads was a declaration that no matter what, we would not be silenced. No matter what, we would not be stopped. The world had ignored us before, disregarded our pleas, and remained oblivious to our demands. 

But today? The world echoed with the sound of our footsteps as the ground shook with our presence. The world would hear us, and tremble with every step.

This fight wasn’t just for us or for the future we dreamed of. It was for those who had lived before us- who had endured and suffered years of hatred, just for the colour of their skin. Their voices may have been stifled, but they would never be forgotten.

To be black may have been a death sentence back then, but today, it is my identity that I accept with pride. 

To be black is not a crime, it is something to be proud of. We are powerful people who have, despite all odds, been presidents, astronauts, scientists, writers, activists, and world-changers.

To be black is not a crime. It is a legacy carved in pain, forged in fire, and carried with pride. A legacy of resilience.

They burned our homes. Stole our lives. But still, we remain.

We were never meant to survive. But we did.

We rose- like a phoenix from the flames.